


Memories and Maladies

by sinnerforhire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerforhire/pseuds/sinnerforhire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine hurt/sick!Dean comment fics written for a hurt/comfort meme on Livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Air Up There

Like all of his classmates, Dean's excited about the field trip to the Amish farm. All he knows about Amish people is that they drive around in horse-drawn buggies that go real slow, and when they get stuck behind one on a two-lane road, Dad says a lot of words that Dean and Sam are not allowed to repeat until they're old enough to have a driver's license.

As they're lining up to get on the bus, the student teacher, Miss Hicks, hands Dean his inhaler, which she's retrieved from the teacher's desk. He thinks it's stupid that he's not allowed to have it in his pocket during class, but that's what the rules say and Dean knows better than to make a fuss about it. He tucks it into the pocket of his jean jacket and follows the line out to the school bus.

The bus takes them out of town and way into the country, past cows grazing on hillsides and long fields of cornstalks that look taller even than Mr. Oberholtzer. Finally they arrive at the Amish farm and file off the bus and into the farmhouse, where a volunteer tells them about how the Amish live without electricity and telephones and anything else they consider too "worldly." An Amish girl in a blue dress and black apron shows the kids how the women make the famous quilts and cook over an open fire. Then they go out to the barn and another volunteer tells them about the community barn-raising ritual and then shows them how to churn butter.

The go outside to a picnic area to eat lunch and then Mr. Oberholtzer and Miss Hicks take them to the corn maze. Dean's never seen a corn maze before. The corn is much taller than his teacher and forms a solid wall impossible to see through. Mr. Oberholtzer breaks the class into groups of four and sends the groups into the maze one at a time. There are a few lookout points where you can climb up on a ladder and look out over all the corn to see where you need to go. Dean's group goes third and he naturally takes the lead. Two of the kids in his group seem happy to follow Dean but the other girl, Ashley, wants to have her own way. They stop at a four-way intersection and hear yelling coming from their right.

"Let's go that way," says Ashley, pointing towards the commotion.

"No, we're going straight," counters Dean, a little breathlessly. His chest feels a bit tight. He doesn't want to use his inhaler in front of his classmates if he can possibly help it, so he charges forward and vows to get out of the maze as fast as soon as he can so he can go off and take his meds without anyone seeing.

Dean has a good sense of direction and he's pretty sure he knows where he's going, but fighting with Ashley at every corner is starting to take a toll on him. His chest is so tight it hurts and he can barely get three words out at a time. The other girl in his group, Lauren, is starting to give him weird looks.

Finally they come to one of the lookout points. Dean jumps on the ladder and starts climbing up to the platform so he can use his inhaler, but a few rungs up he starts to feel dizzy. He stops and tries to get his bearings but he can't breathe and his chest feels like an elephant stomped on it and the edges of his vision are getting dark. He wraps one arm around the side of the ladder and takes his inhaler out of his pocket. He shakes it a couple times and takes a puff from it, trying to pull as much of the icky medicine into his lungs as he can. His hands are starting to tingle and it's hard to keep a hold of the ladder. He takes another puff and fights to suck in the much-needed medicine. White sparks explode in front of his eyes and he's so tired, he just wants to lay down and sleep.

"Dean? _Dean_!"

He feels hands on his back. "Dad?" he chokes out before a coughing fit overtakes him. Next thing he feels is hard, cold ground underneath his butt and something firm but softer under his head. Somehow, the inhaler has made its way to his lips and he inhales as much as he can when he tastes the bitter medicine on his tongue.

"Hold on, Dean. Just hold on." The voice is soft, muffled by the buzzing in his ears and the sound of his own wheezing.

It all gets a little fuzzy after that, but he comes back to full awareness when a nebulizer forces its way into his mouth and a rough but instantly recognizable hand surrounds his. He looks over and sees his dad standing next to him, looking almost as worried as he did when they first found out Dean had asthma. Dad's eyes widen when he catches Dean looking at him. "Hey, kiddo, you feelin' better?"

Dean nods slightly, wincing when the motion makes his head throb. Dad brushes a hand through Dean's hair. "Take it easy. You've really been through the wringer today, haven't you?"

The nurse comes in then to check Dean's vitals and make some small adjustments to the nebulizer. She talks to Dad for a little while, but it's too much effort to listen closely, so Dean just drifts and lets the medicine do its thing. His chest feels a lot better but he's completely exhausted, plus his head hurts and his body feels heavy, like his arms and legs are made of cement. He must doze off again because the next thing he feels is movement and when he opens his eyes he's in his dad's arms and they're outside. "Are we going home?" he asks, his voice weak and raspy.

"After we pick your brother up from school," Dad answers, laying him down in the backseat of the car. He takes off his leather jacket and spreads it over Dean like a blanket. "Go 'head and sleep, I'll wake you up when we get home."

Dean curls up under the warm leather and dozes off to the soothing strains of Metallica.


	2. The Dangers of Trigonometry

At first, John thought he was lying. That he was making shit up to get out of taking his trig test. Trying to argue the point when he felt like a grenade had exploded inside his head had just led to him puking all over his bedsheets, which had not pleased John in the least. He'd actually grabbed Dean's arm and tried to haul him up out of bed until Dean screamed bloody murder and almost passed out. Even then, all he did was give Dean aspirin and instructions to sleep it off.

36 hours later, when Dean's still panting in agony from the relentless, excruciating pain, John admits that something is probably wrong. He tells Dean that if he doesn't feel better by morning, they're going to the hospital. By dawn, the pain has backed off to a manageable (well, for a Winchester) level and he can stand normal sounds and indirect sunlight. He eats dinner that evening for the first time in three days and goes to school the next day to make up his math test.

A month later, he's in trig when the headache starts. He tries to ignore it, just get through the last two periods of the day, but the pain gets so bad during gym class that he can barely make it into the nurse's office. She gives him Excedrin and lets him spend the last hour of the day in a dark, quiet back room. Driving home is misery; by the time he picks Sam up from junior high and gets the both of them home he's ready to load his Glock and put an end to the goddamn headache once and for all, but he doesn't have the energy or focus to do it. He closes all the curtains in the house and makes Sam swear on pain of death to stay the hell away from him. The headache doesn't last as long this time--it's gone by noon the next day--but 24 hours is still 23 hours and 59 minutes too long. Plus, he misses another trig test and has to make it up the next day.

The third time it happens, he finally puts the pieces together. Somehow his headaches are connected to his math tests. He calls a clinic with a fake story about a college paper and finds out that chronic severe headaches are called migraines and they can be triggered by physical things, like certain foods or environmental factors, or emotional stress. _Bingo_.

"You're trying to tell me you're _allergic_ to trigonometry?" John sputters.

"Sort of," replies Dean. "It's not like I'll ever need to know it anyway. Can't I just get a doctor's note that I don't have to take it?"

"You come up with the money to see a doctor, you can do whatever you want."

He starts with his math teacher, laying out the situation and asking if he could take the tests open-book. Shockingly, Mr. Laudermilch actually goes for it. "My wife has had migraines since I met her," the teacher explains. "I know how agonizing they can be. If you continue to attend class regularly and turn in your homework on time, I'll allow you to use one 5 by 7 inch index card of notes during the test."

It actually works. He makes it through the rest of the school year without another migraine and also improves his trig grade a few points. It isn't until late April, when John stumbles in after a hunt with a four-inch chunk missing from his arm, that Dean gets another migraine. However, Sam takes pity on him and walks two miles to the drugstore to get him Excedrin and a few chemical heat packs. He's still laid up for two days, but now that he understands what's going on a little better, he can take care of himself.

That doesn't stop him from burning his trig book on the last day of school, though.


	3. Spontaneous

Dean doesn't make a big deal out of it, because that's not what Winchesters do. So his shoulder is a little sore. He's had worse.

Sam's in rare form today, though. They're not even through breakfast and already the little vein in John's forehead is standing out. Dean isn't surprised when John throws his plate in the sink, grabs Sam by the collar and growls at Dean, "Outside. Now."

John orders Dean to run around the complex five times as he shoves Sam face-first onto the macadam for sit-ups, compounding Sam's misery by sitting on his back. Dean takes off rather than watch his brother struggle and his dad fume.

By the time Dean gets back from his laps, his shoulder is aching like a bitch and there's a sharp pain in his back. He's also having a little trouble catching his breath. As he comes to a stop in front of their building, he rolls his shoulder and tries to shake it off. John and Sam are sparring, both red-faced with fury and exertion. As Sam barely manages to block a right hook, Dean surges forward and taps Sam sharply on the shoulder. "Tag out."

"I'm not done with him yet," barks John.

"Yeah, you are," replies Dean. He pulls Sam out of the way and throws a punch at John. "You're still pissed, you can take it out on me."

John's still pissed, all right. Dean struggles to block the cascade of blows John sends his way, not even bothering to try to go on the offense because that's just a recipe for disaster. Dean lands a punch on John's chin, pulls it just slightly at the last minute, and John fights back with spped and strength he shouldn't have at his age. Dean's breathless and tired, his back is killing him and his abused shoulder is just about to give out. Still, he just tagged in, John'll kill him if he tags out so soon.

Dean ducks a high outside jab and snaps off a blow to John's stomach. John retaliates with a hard left hook that glances off Dean's bad shoulder and Dean lets out a cry that's cut off almost immediately due to lack of air. Dean collapses to the ground, curling on his side to try and relieve the pain, gasping for breath that doesn't come. He hears Sam shout but it sounds fuzzy and far away. The edges of his visual field start to darken and someone--Sam, he thinks--rolls him on his back. His whole right side, from his neck to his waist, is a hot, tight ball of agony. The darkness creeps in and Dean welcomes it, anything to escape the pain.

He wakes up to the chemical smell and bright white lights of a hospital. There's a weird whirring noise coming from somewhere beside him. He turns to look but all he sees is Sam jumping up from his seat. "Hey, you're awake!"

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Dean tries to say, but it comes out a rasping wheeze. Sam grabs a cup of water with a straw from the bedside table and holds it up for Dean to drink. A couple sips later, he tries again. "What happened?"

"Your lung collapsed," Sam replies. "They put a chest tube in to re-inflate your lung, they said that might take a day or two."

Dean sighs. "Great. Where's Dad?"

Sam's eyes go dark. "I don't know and I don't care."

"Sammy--" Dean sighs. "Can you just, like, call a truce till I get out of here? Please?" Sam's much better at the puppy eyes than Dean, but Dean's no slouch. He turns the full force of his pathetic pout on Sam and Sam folds like a cheap suit.

"I think he's in the cafeteria. Want me to get him?"

"In a minute." Dean glances around the room, takes in the various monitors and the weird machine that must be re-inflating his lung. _Jesus_. He could have _died_.

"I almost died, didn't I?" Dean asks quietly.

Sam nods, takes a deep breath. "Yeah, you did. Dad didn't even want to wait for the ambulance, he just threw you in the back of the car and drove here like a bat out of hell." Sam looks down at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For pissing Dad off. Making him want to take it out on you. It's all my fault."

"It's not your fault," replies Dean. "You couldn't have known. Hell, I didn't know. I felt fine up until I got back from running."

Sam sniffles and turns back to Dean. "Really?"

"Really." Dean grins. "And hey, it's not so bad. Cute nurses, sponge baths, getting waited on hand and foot for a few days...could be worse."

As if on cue, a hot blonde in pigtails and a purple scrub shirt with pink hearts walks in. Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam as if to say "See? What'd I tell you?" Sam laughs.

Yeah, it could be worse.


	4. Ups and Downs

When Sam went off to Stanford, the first thought that went through his mind when the bus pulled away from the curb was _I'm free_. Not just free of hunting, not just free of John's tyranny, but free of the ten-ton weight around his neck that was Dean's illness. Not that he was ever allowed to call it an illness to Dean's face. That was an easy way to get a tooth knocked out. No, it was Dean's _thing_. Or Dean's _situation_. The same _situation_ that had turned Sam into a criminal at age 14. He still remembers the bitter taste in his mouth the first time he and John robbed a pharmacy to get Dean his meds. Sam had meticulously written down all the brand names (Depakote, Celexa, Seroquel, Wellbutrin) and then the drug names (divalprolex sodium, citalopram, quetiapine, bupropion hydrochloride), not knowing what they'd find on the bottles. They'd managed to steal about three months worth of each.

Looking back, that had been the easy part. It was much easier to disable an alarm system and pick a few locks than it was to get Dean to take the goddamn medicine. Dean had to be pretty damn low to consent to taking the pills, so they spent most of their time tricking him into taking them. Sam had spent the better part of 2 years waking up at the crack of dawn to crush up pills and open capsules to sneak medicine into Dean's oatmeal or orange juice or omelet. He's sure Dean must have figured it out, but food was food, and there was no denying that the medicine helped. Medicated, Dean was reasonable, logical, and patient. Unmedicated, Dean was a raging, miserable, destructive nightmare.

When they first put Dean in the hospital, when they first heard the word _bipolar_, Sam had gone online in the school library and done some research. He found out Dean's mood swings and rage were symptoms of a "mixed state" or "dysphoric mania", and for the first time he felt more sympathy than anger at his brother. Of course, he'd then gone home and had to help John fix the holes in the wall and the broken chair and he'd been pissed off all over again.

When Dean had come back from Hell, Sam assumed that Castiel had healed Dean's messed-up brain along with his body. Then he'd found Dean weeping in a hospital bed and realized he was wrong. Before they left the hospital, Sam tricked an intern into giving him a three-month supply of generic Wellbutrin and Celexa and samples of Risperdal, which his research has suggested might work better as a mood stabilizer than the anticonvulsants.

Once Dean gets out of the hospital, Sam shows him the bottles of pills and says, "Please take this stuff. You need it. It'll make you feel better." And Dean just holds out a hand and takes them without any argument. And up until Zachariah zaps them into Sandover Bridge and Iron, Dean takes the pills everyday without comment or complaint.

After the great Sandover experiment is over and they return to their normal lives, Dean shrugs off the pills. "Zachariah cured me," he says. "Told me to consider it his fee for the favor." And that was the end of that. After that, when Dean lashes out at angels and demons and everything in between, Sam doesn't have to worry about Dean coming home and destroying their motel room, then sitting in the middle of the wreckage and laughing his ass off about it. And then they go their separate ways, and Sam doesn't have to worry about anything Dean-related at all.

But this time, as the truck pulls away from the rest stop, he doesn't think _I'm free_. This time, he just thinks, _I'm fucked_.


	5. The Farm-dom Menace

It wouldn't have been so bad if the damn glove had been the end of it. They managed to find that fairly quickly, buried under some loose hay in the loft. Dean had salted and burned it while Sam held off the angry spirit of Claude Tucker, a third-generation horse breeder who was forced to sell his farm to a male couple. However, once the glove is reduced to a pile of foul-smelling ash, Tucker keeps coming.

"What the hell?" yells Sam, swiping Tucker's spectral form with a farrying iron. "Why's he still here?"

"I don't know!" Dean calls back. "There must be something else of his laying around!"

"Well, find it!"

That's how Dean finds himself wading through waist-deep hay, searching for the last remains of Claude Tucker. Finally, after about twenty minutes, he digs up a piece of dirty broadcloth. He sneezes twice and forces his way out of the hay, swiping at his watery eyes with the back of his hand. "Got it!" he shouts, his voice raspy and thin. He salts the cloth and takes much pleasure in lighting it aflame.

Sam comes running in from the pasture. "Geez, took you long enough."

"You thi--aaa-chuhgh--that you could ha--aaaah-_shoouhh_\--done any better?"

Sam frowns. "What's wrong with you?"

"I dod't--ahw-JHUOOGH--dow." Dean sniffles and rubs his hand on his jeans to try and relieve the itching. God, he feels like shit.

"I think you're allergic to hay," says Sam, starting toward the doors. "Come on, the fresh air might help a little."

It doesn't. By the time they get back to the car, Dean's eyes are so swollen he can barely see and the hives on his hands itch so bad that he draws blood scratching them. Sam retrieves the first-aid kit and covers Dean's hands in cortisol cream, then wraps a chemical cold pack in a wet bandanna and places it over Dean's eyes. The low moan that Dean lets out is almost orgasmic.

"Ugh, could you not do that again, ever?"

"Shuddup."

"Shit," mutters Sam. "These antihistamines are like five years old. We need some new ones."

"Do we dod't," protests Dean. "Gibbe the dab pills."

In response, Sam clicks the first-aid kit shut. "They probably won't even work. The drugstore isn't that far from here, you can hold out a few more minutes."

"Easy for you t'say," mutters Dean.

Sam snorts. "Dean, you've come home with bullet wounds and not said a word, but you can't handle a little allergy attack?"

"Fugk you."

"I'm just saying..."

"I will kick your fugking ass whed I'b better, dod't thigk I wod't."

Sam starts the car and turns the stereo up to drown out Dean's wheezing.

Fortunately for Dean, the drugstore is the first thing they come to in town. Sam wastes no time procuring Benadryl and water, practically shoving the pills down Dean's throat himself. Dean clasps the deliciously cold water bottle with both of his abused hands and relishes the relief.

Dean's pretty groggy by the time they get to their motel on the other side of town. He climbs out of the car and nearly faceplants on the pavement.

"Whoa, hey, I gotcha," says Sam as he grabs Dean around the waist and hauls him upright. He puts an arm around Dean's shoulders and guides him into the motel room. Dean sinks down on his bed with a sigh and another obscene moan.

"Seriously, you need to stop doing that," grumbles Sam. "You're creeping me out."

Dean flips him off--well, he tries to, it's hard when he can't see where Sam is. He's too exhausted to push the point, so he just gives in and sleeps. The last thing he registers before dozing off is a wet washcloth draping over his eyes.


	6. A Prayer for Dean Winchester

So, that re-hymenation thing? Turns out it has a downside.

The first time it happens, Sam is actually grateful. The low-grade fever Dean's running along with his sore throat makes him sleep longer and deeper, giving Sam the perfect opportunity to duck out and see Ruby. When he returns to the motel in the morning, Dean is still out cold. Sam wakes him up to make him drink the hot tea with honey he brought back from the local coffee shop. Dean's fever breaks the next day and then they're off for another job.

The second time it happens is the day after Dean is cured of the ghost sickness, and Sam figures it's a reaction to all the stress. This time, Dean tries to shrug off Sam's help, tough it out on his own, but by the third day Dean is miserable from pain and fever and finally submits to Sam's care. Sam makes him gargle salt water and take Tylenol on a rigid schedule and soothes Dean's fevered skin with cool facecloths.

The third time it happens, Dean spikes a fever of 103.8 and can't swallow pills. His glands swell to the size of half-dollars and he mumbles deliriously about fire and blood and demons. After 24 hours with no change, Sam hauls his ass to a clinic, where a strep test comes out negative.

"He keeps getting sore throats--this is his third one in a couple of months," Sam tells the pretty young doctor. "It's really getting in the way of our work. Is there anything else you can do?"

She consults with a colleague and soon Dean has a referral to see a general surgeon at the county hospital. Sam drags Dean in while he's too sick to argue and the surgeon agrees to remove Dean's tonsils as soon as he's over his current bout of tonsillitis.

A week later, Sam's in the surgical waiting room checking his watch anxiously. They said the surgery would only take about an hour, maybe less, but it's been close to two and there's still no word. When a nurse comes in ten minutes later, the look on her face makes Sam's stomach turn. He jumps up. "What happened?"

"Your brother had a reaction to the anesthetic," she answers. "It was touch and go there for a while, but he's in recovery now and he'll be carefully monitored to prevent any further complications."

"Can I see him?" Sam whispers.

"Once he's moved from recovery to the ICU you may see him, but ICU visiting hours are fairly strict." Sam must look as shocked and dismayed as he feels, because she smiles gently and says, "The ICU placement is just a precaution; there are fewer patients to each doctor, which means that if there are any problems, they can be dealt with immediately."

Sam swallows hard against the lump that's suddenly grown in his throat. "But he's gonna be okay, right?"

She nods, still smiling. "Your brother's young and strong. His age and previous good health improve his outlook considerably." She gestures to the couch. "Have a seat, I'll let you know when you may see him."

Sam sits back down, feeling dazed and empty. God, it's all his fault. Dean almost _died_, just because Sam was sick of dealing with him. He hasn't felt this helpless since Dean died. There's nothing he can do to fix this, not even with his powers.

He hasn't prayed much since finding out the angels are total dicks, but he doesn't know what else to do. _Please, God, let Dean be okay. I can't lose him again, I just _can't_. He doesn't deserve to die because I'm a selfish asshole--that's just not fair. Please, God, help my brother._


	7. Whatever You Need To

"But Dad--"

"I don't want to hear it, Dean. We're going and that's final."

Dean drops into one of the kitchen chairs and sulks. The school they'll be attending for the foreseeable future has demanded that both he and Sam get a physical examination from a doctor or pediatrician before they can be registered. And that means he's going to get caught.

He's not stupid--he knows that the near-constant stomachaches he's been having for the past month are probably nothing good. He's lost so much weight that he had to put a new hole in his belt to keep his jeans up. At first, eating bland stuff like toast and oatmeal made the pain go away, but for the last week he hasn't been able to keep anything down. He knows Sam's getting suspicious; he's not stupid either, and only the very real threat of a beatdown has kept him from telling John.

But now, Dean's screwed.

John herds them into the car and drives them to the free clinic. John signs them in at the desk and tells Sam he's going first.

"But I don't wanna go first!" whines Sam.

"Tough." John fixes Sam with a glare that could melt steel. Sam swallows and sits down in one of the threadbare chairs along the back wall of the waiting room.

The nurse comes to retrieve them about half an hour later. Dean's stomach hurts so bad he just wants to curl up in a ball and scream, but he forces himself to act like nothing's wrong. The nurse measures their height and puts them each on the scale, and Dean notices her deep frown when she writes down his reading. When she catches him looking, she smiles and says something cheery and stupid that Dean ignores.

She herds them into an exam room with two beds separated by a curtain, then hands them each an ugly green gown and tells them to take off everything but their underwear. She pulls the curtain around Dean's bed so he can't see John, Sam, or the door and he's grateful for the chance to let his guard down. He takes off his shirt and pulls the gown on, but when he attempts to climb off the bed to finish undressing he gets so nauseated that it takes every bit of willpower he has not to puke. He gingerly lies back on the bed and curls up on his side, feeling miserable and sick and nowhere near up to pulling this off.

He doesn't listen to what the doctor says to his brother, just lets the cadence of her voice lull him into a daze. When she pulls the curtain back, he tries to sit up and look healthy but a spike of pain makes him bite into his lip to hold back a groan.

She's instantly on his case. "Lie straight and tell me where the pain is the worst."

He lightly rests his fingertips on top of his stomach, a couple inches above his navel. "Here."

"Is the pain constant or does it come and go?"

"Comes and goes," Dean gasps as she presses lightly on his belly.

"Is it worse in the morning and at night when there's nothing in your stomach?"

"Yeah," he chokes out.

"Have you been vomiting?" He nods. "Does it look black and gritty like coffee grounds?"

"Sometimes."

She exhales sharply and turns to John. "Your son needs to be transferred to the hospital."

"Why?" John barks.

"Because he likely has a bleeding ulcer that could lead to an obstruction of the digestive tract," she replies. "Immediate treatment can prevent further complications."

"Do whatever you need to," says John, his voice rough.

The doctor leaves and soon the nurse returns with a syringe full of something that makes the pain back off and the world go fuzzy and soft around the edges. He drifts in and out of awareness, occasionally tuning in to John and Sam's soft assurances and words of encouragement. There's a flurry of movement and noise, the sharp pain of a needle, and then the gentle slide into darkness.

When he wakes up later, his throat is dry and raw and his eyes are so bleary he barely recognizes the dark shape in the corner as his dad. He croaks out a greeting that sounds like it comes from the deepest recesses of the abyss. John moves his chair closer. "Hey, bud. I can give you a little water but you have to spit it out, you can't swallow it." Dean nods and accepts the plastic straw John raises to his lips. He lets the water trickle back to his abused throat and spits it out into a basin as he was instructed.

His eyesight's a little clearer now and he can make out Sam huddling in the corner looking terrified. He puts on his best approximation of a smile. "Hey, Sammy."

"Hey, Dean." His voice is soft and lifeless.

"How are you feeling?" asks John.

Dean thinks about it. "Better. It doesn't hurt so much. But I'm a little..." He can't come up with the word.

"Yeah, they put you under to do the procedure, it might take a little while for the anesthetic to wear off completely," replies John. "But they cauterized the bleed and you're gonna be just fine in a couple days." He sits back and scowls at Dean. "And then we're going to have a _serious_ talk."

Dean nods. "Yeah, okay."

John's face softens. "Get some rest, kiddo. We'll be here."

_We'll be here_. Dean lets himself drift away with a lopsided smile.


	8. My Heart, It Beats For You

It's not the worst night of Dean's life, but it's pretty damn close.

He's huddled in bed, shivering under a sheet, two blankets and a comforter, trying to gather the strength to pick up the glass of water on the bedside table and take a few sips. He's been puking for hours now and he's pretty sure the pounding headache that recently made itself known is a sign that he's dehydrated. It's just that the table is so far away, and the glass is so heavy, and it's just going to make him puke again anyway, so what's the point?

He lies there for a few more minutes until his stomach twists and he has to drag himself into the tiny bathroom to heave bitter strings of yellow bile into the toilet. He wishes desperately for Jedi powers so he can telekinetically retrieve his blankets and pillow. It's fucking cold in here.

Suddenly the fluorescent light above his head bursts into life and Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the roaring pain in his head. He tries to yell at Sam to turn it off, but all that comes out is "Hrrnnrhhgh."

"Fuck, are you okay?" Hands on his shoulders pull him up off the floor and huge, rough fingers press against his forehead, then both cheeks. "Jesus. You're burning up."

The requisite wisecrack flits through Dean's conscious mind, but his fevered brain can't grab onto it. He moans again and leans into the touch.

"You've gotta drink some water, you're not even sweating." The solid presence at his back shifts and then disappears altogether. Dean doesn't have the strength to keep himself upright, so he topples gracelessly on his side, shivering convulsively when his exposed skin comes in contact with the cold linoleum floor.

"Hey, hey..." He's lifted off the floor and held up by strong arms. A cold glass is pressed to his lips. "Take it slow. Small sips."

Dean drinks as much as he can, then shakes his head slightly to let Sam know he's done. Dean slumps against the warm, solid wall of his brother's chest, taking comfort in the strong, steady beat of Sam's heart under his ear. A hand slides across his back, the other slips under his shirt and gently massages his aching, abused stomach muscles. Everything is silent and still and somehow right in a way it hasn't been since before Dad died.

Some time later--it could be seconds or hours, Dean doesn't really know--Sam puts the glass to Dean's mouth again and coaxes him to drink in soft, gentle tones. He finishes the glass and it returns a few moments later filled to the brim. Sam meters out the water in doses that won't make Dean sick and soon the malaise and distress give way to something like calm and contentment.

Finally, Sam eases him up off the floor and guides him back to bed. Sam tries to disentangle himself from Dean, but Dean moans and clutches Sam's hand with all the strength he possesses and soon Sam gives in and climbs into the bed beside Dean. Dean finds Sam's heartbeat and lets the slow, rhythmic pulse lull him into sleep.


	9. The Healing Properties of Hoodies

Food runs do not take two hours. That's just a fact.

Sam scowls when Dean's phone goes to voicemail for the seventh time. He knows, he knows, that there's a perfectly reasonable explanation that does not involve demons or serial killers or FBI agents. He does. But that doesn't stop his stomach from twisting into a knot when the numbers on the clock flip from 8:59 to 9:00.

Fifteen minutes later, the door finally opens to reveal a soaked-to-the-bone and extremely pissed-off-looking older brother. "What the hell happened?" demands Sam.

"Nothing. Fucking good d-d-deed came b-back to bite m-m-me on the ass, that's all," Dean replies, though the words are somewhat hard to decipher with all the chattering his teeth are doing.

Then Sam realizes that Dean's jacket is missing. "Where the hell is your coat?"

"Long s-s-story," Dean sputters, shivering violently.

"Well, get out of those clothes," orders Sam, hurrying over to Dean's bag to dig out dry sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Dean fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, his numb fingers refusing to perform the task required. Sam shoves Dean's useless hands aside and unbuttons Dean's shirt himself, then unties Dean's boots and tosses them aside so he can strip off Dean's jeans.

"I c-c-can do it m-myself," protests Dean, but his weak attempts to push Sam's hands away are no match for Sam's determination.

Sam shoves the sweatpants into Dean's hands. "You know the rest." He turns away and lets Dean struggle out of his wet shorts himself. "You decent yet?" he asks a minute later.

"Yeah," Dean replies, and sneezes. Sam turns around and retrieves the shirt. Dean sneezes again, and again, and sniffles loudly. "Shit," he mutters.

"That about covers it," replies Sam. He gets Dean into the shirt and then takes off his own hoodie and motions for Dean to put his arms out. "Here, this is already warm." He bundles Dean in the too-large hoodie and zips it up to Dean's chin. "Get in bed; I'll make some coffee." He grabs the coffeepot and goes into the bathroom to fill it. Just then, something occurs to him. "Dean, you did bring the car back, right?"

"Of c-course I f-f-fucking did," Dean growls, and sneezes. "But the front w-w-window's broken."

Well, that explains why Dean couldn't warm up in the car. Sam pours the water into the coffeepot and sets it to brew. Dean sneezes twice, sniffles, and groans.

Sam digs the hot water bottle out of the first-aid kit and fills it up. "Here." Dean accepts it gratefully and curls up around it. Dean is a little too pale for Sam's liking; it looks like he's in for a hell of a head cold.

A few minutes later, Sam hears a congested snore. He looks over to see Dean dead to the world, hot water bottle clutched to his chest like a favorite teddy bear. Oh, well. He can always heat the coffee up in the morning.


End file.
